


buried, buried

by viscrael



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Gen, Metaphors, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little boys shouldn’t do such bad things, shouldn’t try</p>
<p>To live like gods and take life into their own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	buried, buried

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to dirty night clowns and then i was like wAIT THIS IS. TIME FOR WRITING
> 
>  
> 
> anyway im trying to get more into diff styles of writing + less stuff so heavily revolved arnd ships (bc romance is decidedly Not the most important thing in ur life) so then this came out

His childhood is filled with tattered bed sheets,

If any at all. He sleeps on a mattress made of broken

Booze battles, never his own, always someone else’s,

And when he goes into town to sweet talk merchants

With an impudent tongue and slip candy-sweet apples into

His pockets, he is approached by a woman that he has

Never met before, and she asks him, Little boy, where

Are your parents? Which is, really, a rather stupid

Question to ask him, because of course he doesn’t have

_Parents_ , his parents didn’t want him, she has no right

Getting in his business anyway. But she looks well off,

So he sweet-talks her, the way he did with the merchant,

Until he has thumb-sized coins pressed into the sweaty

Fabric of his shorts.

 

And he follows the circus because what else is a little

Boy like him supposed to do when he’s been rejected from

His own home for being a freak? He doesn’t make friends,

But there’s a lion tamer that he talks to sometimes, and she

Always gives him candies when she has them on her. She

Smiles at him and calls him brat, which he doesn’t like, but

It gets him food, so he doesn’t say anything about it, and

Almost everyone else just ignores him, really, because he

Isn’t in the way, but he doesn’t particularly interest them

Either. Until there comes a clown that he meets who shows

Him a little dog named Allen and he thinks maybe sleeping

On broken bottles isn’t as fine with him as he originally

Thought it was.

 

Little boys shouldn’t do such bad things, shouldn’t try

To live like gods and take life into their own hands,

Shouldn’t mess with the natural way of things. But he was, after

All, still only a child, and little boys don’t quite understand

That messing with death is something one is never supposed

To do. So when a man comes and asks him if he wants his

Dear father back, what is he supposed to say? Is he supposed

To say no? Is he supposed to let his father just _die_ when he has

Something being presented to him that can change that?

 

He takes the name—Allen, that is—because Red is not

Something he thinks fits him very well anymore. Is he

Red? Is he                                                      Red anymore?

His hair turns white and he has crocodile tears so he

Doesn’t think that Red        fits him very well anymore.

 

And then he’s back to broken bottle mattresses but he doesn’t

Sweet talk anymore; in fact, his tongue is heavy, so so heavy, that

He doesn’t talk quite at all, not sweet or sour or anything in between,

Even as people try to coax him into opening his mouth. Spiders will

Fall out, he’s afraid, or remnants of old booze that match his arm in

Color

(That is to say          Red)

If he opens his mouth

 

So he doesn’t and his hair grows whiter, whiter still, mirroring the

Snow that falls right outside his bedroom window on the empty

Courtyard below. But

He remembers that he isn’t supposed to be like this, his father didn’t

Want him to be like this, all withered in on himself and glued tight and

Glued shut, like a doll that’s been broken and stuck back together one

Too many times. He is supposed to keep moving, he is supposed to

Keep moving,

Don’t stop walking,

Allen Allen Allen

Never stop moving forward.

 

So the snow melts, and

He raises his little doll legs

And keeps walking.

 


End file.
